


Those Who Survive

by Foodmoon



Series: Oddball fics [34]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bigotry, Dark memories of dead boys, Dark premise of sorts, Dark witcher trials, Do not share for profit, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Geralt doesn't like to talk about it, Geralt's dark ability from an unwanted dark past, Hydra death, Internalized Angst, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Life energies stealing, Long-lived Jaskier, M/M, Part!incubus Jaskier, Slow Burn, migraines, mild crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23086540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foodmoon/pseuds/Foodmoon
Summary: What if one of the witcher trials was far darker than we're told and that one trial was responsible for a minimum death rate of 50% among candidates? What if Geralt was the unlucky sucker who drew the short straw, survived, and ended up with an uncanny ability that means he can never afford to quite forget?
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt & Yennefer, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, past Geralt/Yennefer - Relationship
Series: Oddball fics [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/938265
Comments: 24
Kudos: 129





	1. Jaskier Whines

**Author's Note:**

> The title only refers to Geralt's ponderings about his past.  
> There is more to this fic...but only if the gods of muse relent enough that it gets from cliff notes format to actual prose. Meanwhile, I have no idea where this fic will end up other than the vague part where Geralt and Jaskier realize they might want more from each other than they thought.

It takes Geralt about two seconds to realize that Jaskier is part incubus. Part, not fully, just a spark of sexual energy that hadn’t been there before skin contact, just the faintest unconscious draw on his life energies. Likely so far back that only the hint of something else in his other parent’s bloodline had brought it forth, both a blessing and a curse to one such as the bard, who bore it all unknowing. The draw so faint that one less experienced and less attuned to their bodies wouldn’t notice even if they were looking for it.

In truth, it’s not unlike his own automatic ability to draw in a measure life force off of every death around him, be it monster, beast, or human. His mouth twists bitterly for a split second, a memory of two boys drained dry long ago haunting his thoughts for a moment before being ruthlessly suppressed again. It is the why of how Witchers heal so fast, even with potions and mutations, they heal faster than can be natural. Each trial takes its toll of the candidates, of course, but not so much as others think.

No, it is the last trial that owns that bill. Where two boys are locked in a room together, magic and potions thrumming through their veins, not told the contents of the trial until they survive it. _If_ they survive it. Only one boy survives from each room. Occasionally neither survive. There’s only one recorded instance of both surviving. They are not told that to survive they will have to drain the life force from the other, that the stronger one will survive, and not all strengths are in muscles or smarts or innate magics. In Geralt’s year, there were an odd number of boys, so he shared his cell with two others. He does not regret living, but… His cost is living with the lives of two innocents on his soul and self-hatred, his payment that his ability is stronger, his endurance greater, his healing faster than even others of his kind.

There are other costs, of course. He says he does not kill men, only monsters. The truth, but only partial. Men are too easy to sip from as they die, do him too little damage to offset what they give back. If too many die around him too quickly, his life force is glutted with the energy and he suffers damning headaches until he can wear it off sufficiently. Being touched in such a state is nigh painful in its own right and it makes him defensive, irritable, and almost touch-phobic. He cannot turn the ability off, but in extremity, if he’s in danger of outright dying, he can turn it higher, can rip the life force entire out of a living being, leaving them nothing but a slack husk of flesh and bone. No sign of what killed them evident. Too quick to cause withering like a succubus’ or incubus’ ability gone unchecked does.

Vesemir is the last before him to have such ability, other witchers’ ability with it is restricted to minor draws in extremity, a last resort to let them survive fatal injuries. Geralt understands all too well why Vesemir decided that no more witchers should be made.

The world does not need more like them.

Never does he protest the labels of ‘monster’ and ‘butcher’. They are deserved, in his opinion, if not the full truth. If humans knew the full truth, kings would turn their armies against them and wipe out all his remaining brethren, not just him and Vesemir, who shares his affliction. That doesn’t mean he _likes_ hearing the words slung at him in insult. No, indeed, he does not.

And the mouthy bard fully deserves the gentle punch to the gut that he gets.

Geralt doesn’t force the not-quite-fully-human bard to part ways with him, though. There is a reason for that. And it’s only partly that the stupid boy smells eager rather than afraid. The tiny trickle of energy Jaskier unknowingly drew from him, his fingers brushing Geralt’s knuckles for a long moment, the energy that brightened the bard annoyingly, losing that trickle had eased the near-migraine level glut headache.

The nest of kikimoras he’d fought had still been young, too inexperienced to seriously damage him before he killed them all and gave himself a blinding headache in the process a full week ago. He hated the headaches. A series of brutal training exercises only blunted the most vicious edge of them. The only true upside to a glut not steadily drained off by heavy injuries healing at inhuman rates is that he never has an appetite, so he hasn’t needed to stock up on new rations. He _had_ , of course. But only because hunting, foraging and making jerky were suitably gentle actions as far as his throbbing temples were concerned.

So, yes, Jaskier is a person who likes to touch. And no, Geralt does not like to be touched _(unless he’s paying for sex)_. But with Jaskier? His touch eases pain instead of bringing it. Geralt prefers Jaskier’s hands in his hair removing monster blood and viscera to a high-class whore moaning beneath him. Not that he’ll _ever_ tell him, or any other soul that.

There are no words Geralt ever regrets more than the ones on the mountain that send Jaskier away. There is _time_ for their reconciliation. Jaskier is _definitely_ not aging human-quick. But Jaskier still thinks he’s human, hasn’t learnt yet how to let time bury things without a word, and Geralt _knows_ he hurt the boy in ways he doesn’t know how to handle. It means that this time, Geralt will have to use his words and apologize properly.

So he does, and Jaskier forgives him, because Jaskier has always understood the spaces between his words, the things he can never quite say and he understands how much value Geralt places on him with that blunt apology laid out between them. He _shouldn’t_ , but he does, and Geralt’s rarely been more grateful for something.

Then the whole mess with Cintra and Nilfgaard and the Wild Hunt happens and when it passes, Cirilla goes south to rule an empire. Though, if he’s any judge, only until she gets thoroughly bored and manages to pass it off onto some descendant. Cirilla will live a long, long time, after all.

All of which is to say that Geralt is currently traveling with Jaskier again and steadily getting more annoyed by the bard’s whining litany of how deprived his dick is.

“I want sex. I want an inn, with a nice bed. Really, Geralt, your back will thank you, just think of the benefits! Why there’d even be a proper bath, and I _know_ it’s been forever since you’ve visited a whorehouse, because I’ve been with you and I haven’t visited one for _months_ , and-”

Geralt sets Roach’s saddle down over a handy rock, reaches over, wraps a hand around Jaskier’s nape and shakes him gently. “I said ‘no’. The only town in three days ride belongs to a viscount with a reputation for jealousy.”

“Oh, come on. I wouldn’t sleep with the viscountess! Just one night, Geralt!”

He shakes him again before letting go with a huff. “Knowing you, you’d sleep with his daughter, his son and him instead. I have no urge to kill my way out of a dungeon again, just to rescue you.”

Jaskier pouts. “You only kill monsters not men.”

“When I have a choice.” Geralt reminds him. “And who’s to say the viscount is human?”

The bard gapes at him for a moment. “Really?”

“Yes, really. So far he’s been no worse than any other lord, and I’d really rather not tangle with him if I can avoid it. I don’t need to be known as the Butcher of Karsten.”

This brings a satisfying wince from Jaskier. “C’mon, Geralt. Just one night! I can control myself. You know that. We’ve been traveling together for over twenty years and-”

Geralt’s look stops him.

“What? What’s that look for?”

“Jaskier. Do you remember what year you were born?” Geralt can see him scrabbling for the answer, one he hasn’t needed in…well, years.

“Of course I do!”

“And would you happen to know what year it is?”

“Yes.” Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“And that makes you…how old?” Geralt prompts patiently.

Jaskier’s eyes widen abruptly and he presses his fingers just under his eyes with an expression of horror. “Yennefer was right! I do have eye bags! You know what this means, Geralt! My mirror must be cursed so I can’t see how old I am! Why didn’t you tell me? I’m _old_ , Geralt! All this time and you didn’t tell me! An old, frail human like me should be sleeping in cozy inns regularly, not out-”

Geralt snorts. “You haven’t aged a day in the last thirty years, so quit your caterwauling. Or hadn’t you noticed _that_ , either?”

“I… What?” Jaskier gropes his face, checking for non-existent wrinkles. “But…I’m human, Geralt! I swear I am!”

He lifts one shoulder. “Mostly. It happens sometimes. One parent has a little of something, the other has a little of something else, and the child comes out a little _more_ , with a longer lifespan. Incubus, in your case.”

Jaskier chokes on air as he processes this, then brightens abruptly enough to make Geralt groan in impending irritation at what will come out of his mouth next. “Geralt! This means I _need_ sex, or I’ll _literally wither away!_ You can’t possibly be that cruel. Just one night, Geralt!”

“You won’t. I don’t know what the other bit in you is, but I suspect elf or fae. Holding cold steel doesn’t bother you, but you do have an aversion to it. You don’t _need_ sex to survive, it just makes your life more pleasant.”

“Of course I do! I like my parts intact, thank you very much! And what do you mean I don’t _need_ it? I feel like my cock’s going to wilt off if I don’t get some soon!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’d have noticed before now if it was an issue. And if it’s energy you need, I’ll give you some.”

“Why Geralt, is that a come on? I didn’t know you had it in you.” Jaskier’s blue eyes are wide and cautious despite his light tone.

“No, it was not.” He narrows his eyes at the bard. “Come here.”

Jaskier hesitates, then edges closer. “Is this close enough?”

“Hmmn.” Geralt grips his wrists, gratified but unsurprised when Jaskier doesn’t panic and pull away. The idiot boy always did lack common sense. He waits until he feels the tiny, unconscious _pull_ from Jaskier, then _shoves_ the lingering mass of excess life force from a too easy recent kill at the connection. It’s not exactly magic, but the excess can be handled somewhat like chaos.

The bard jolts and gasps, expression shifting through various emotions too fast to properly identify. After a long moment, he gasps again and slumps in Geralt’s grasp. “Tha’ feelzz nizce, Geral’. Bu’ I think you shoul’ sto-stop. I ff-think ‘m drunk, Geral’.”

He’s happy enough to stop. At least the glut headache has eased significantly, and he won’t have to listen to Jaskier rant about his dick trying to dry up and blow away anymore. Win-win situation in his opinion. He eases him to the ground, helping him lean against his pack, then laying out both bedrolls and tipping Jaskier gently into his.

“Geral’? Can all wi’cherz do tha’?”

“No.” He bites out, bitter, harsh and dark.

Jaskier stirs and pushes himself up a bit to stare at him. “Sorry. I didn’ mean anythin’ by it.”

Ignoring him for a moment, he lights the fire with a brief Igni, more out of irritation than need, then stands to loom over his friend. “I know. Go to sleep, Jaskier.”


	2. Of Brutes and Hydras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am over a week behind on answering comments and I sincerely apologize. It will probably be a while until I'm caught up properly again, for a couple reasons. 1. My sis has decided to obsess over corvid-19 and the shortages caused by people freaking out and stocking up, in the process stressing everyone out and using up a large portion of my time as a result. 2. More significantly, I suffer from SADS and barometer pressure changes have the _lovely_ result of flattening my energy and will to live for hours at a time. This is the time of year my area gets a lot of winter weather, ie. storms and pressure fronts moving through, so...  
> And no, I'm not looking for sympathy, just letting people know why you haven't been getting replies as of yet. I promise I'm not ignoring you and I very much appreciate your comments. They brighten my days.

Jaskier looks down at the hand firmly wrapped around the angled curve of his hipbone, then up at Geralt, whose expression is uninformatively neutral. “What is this about? I just want to go over and speak with that girl.”

An unimpressed arch of an eyebrow meets this. “Not unless you want her lover trying to cut your dick off.”

He sputters, because he doesn’t flirt with _every_ girl he talks to. By which he means, he bats his eyes at them, sure, but he doesn’t _fuck_ them all. Of course, he _was_ thinking maybe this one-

“But-”

“No.” Geralt says firmly, a thread of impatience in his tone that speaks volumes.

After a moment, Jaskier decides that the girl isn’t worth the hassle of trying to get Geralt to relent. _Overprotective witcher._ The hand stays put.

One of the village brutes _(and by ‘brute’, he means a little dirty, a little smelly, and probably can write his own name if he’s particularly educated for the region)_ wanders over from elsewhere in the tavern and asks, “You a lover of men, bard?”

Jaskier is still trying to sort out if it’s interest or disapproval when Geralt answers for him.

“No.”

The brute looks a bit wary at Geralt choosing to enter the conversation, but tilts his head to indicate Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s hip. “Then what’s that about?”

He opens his mouth to give a scathing reply to that, because _rude_ , but Geralt’s fingers tighten warningly to just shy of bruising. And he’s humoring Geralt, so he takes the cue and shuts his mouth without saying a word.

“Would you rather I let him flirt and fuck with your mother, your wife, your girlfriend and your daughter?” Geralt asks sardonically.

“Geralt! I object! I don’t sleep with little girls, that’s icky!”

“That girl you were staring at is his daughter.” Geralt informs him blandly.

He finds he has nothing to say to that startling revelation.

“So…that…?” The surprisingly old villager persists unwisely.

The witcher narrows his yellow eyes at the man, making him pale. “I don’t fancy people trying to harm my possessions.” He says flatly.

“Ah.” The asshole nods with _frankly insulting_ acceptance of this explanation and retreats to safer parts of the tavern.

“Geralt!” He hisses softly, knowing the witcher’s sharp ears will hear him loud and clear. “What’s this about being your possession!?”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow at him again. “Would you rather I told him that you’re a eunuch and my boy toy?”

He flushes in mortification. “Not that again!” Then, after Geralt’s silence provokes him to curiosity, “Why didn’t you, though?”

There is another brief silence before Geralt relents. “They might’ve asked for proof. I didn’t figure that you’d appreciate the result.”

Jaskier splutters.

~

“Fuck!”

If there’s one thing besides music that Jaskier is incredibly well-versed in, it is the depth and range of Geralt’s ‘hmmns’ and ‘fucks’. And _that_ is his _‘something’s about to eat the squishy human I’m traveling with’_ fuck. Jaskier looks up in alarm to see a hydra looming over him and scrambles backwards hastily, fast enough that the main mouth misses snapping shut on his head by inches. But the secondary head snakes sideways and catches him from shoulder to waist around his arms and chest, _and then-_ It rears back instead of crunching down, with a shrieking bellow of protest at something Geralt did- Probably that sword sticking out of its side, at least he’s pretty sure it’s Geralt’s sword, _but_ \- Then he feels Geralt _do_ something, not magic but something like it, that _pulls_ and the creature screeches in terror before falling down. Dead. Limp as a noodle. At Jaskier’s feet. As in getting drool on his nice boots.

Geralt is still cursing for some reason.

Jaskier looks down at himself. He doesn’t _think_ the wounds themselves are bad enough to kill or cripple him on their own, but _wow, that is a lot of blood_ and yeah, he’s about to drop dead, isn’t he?

Then Geralt gets his hands on him and Jaskier kind of loses track for a bit because his head goes all fuzzy and the pain goes away for a bit even though Geralt’s dragging him somewhere _and_ \- He finds himself lying down next to Geralt’s bag of witcher supplies. When his ears make sense of the sounds around him, he realizes that Geralt is _still_ cursing steadily, even as he wraps strips of bandages tightly around one of Jaskier’s arms and _oh_ \- Geralt’s doing that thing again, the one that made him drunk before, but apparently isn’t going to now, because he’s bleeding out and _fuck, but it hurts again_ and Geralt’s probably trying to _keep_ him from bleeding out with the bandages. He ties them off on the first arm before moving to the other arm and repeating the rather rough-with-urgency process.

“Stay _with_ me, Jaskier.” Geralt orders. “Don’t you _dare_ die like this.”

He blinks at Geralt with a dumb expression, _because he really doesn’t intend to? Die like this, that is._ Finally he manages to ask, “Aren’t you supposed to clean wounds first?”

Geralt bares his teeth in a split-second half-snarl. “ _Later_. When you won’t bleed out before I finish cleaning them.”

“Oh. Good idea.” Jaskier praises hazily, then grits his teeth, unable to keep the whimpers from slipping between them despite his best efforts.

Geralt gives him a _look_ that says exactly how worried he is, practically downright frantic for the taciturn witcher, and shoves more of that _energy_ from last time at him, which eases the pain a fair bit. He turns to working on treating Jaskier’s ribs next, cursing vividly and working out bits of broken off fangs stuck against the ribs _and he thinks he really doesn’t want to know why they broke off instead of ripping his ribcage off, even though he’s, y’know, grateful for it. He likes being alive._

“You cut off my shirt.” He remarks after a particularly vicious looking chunk of tooth is ripped out of his tender skin.

“Would you rather I have taken it off _over_ your wounds?” Geralt bites out.

“Ah. Hah, hnh, hnh. No. You did good. Good idea.”

“Hmmn.” _(Or ‘duh, you moron’, in Geralt lingo.)_ Geralt wraps his torso in bandages too, then packs up their things and saddles up the horses, pausing several times mid-task to shove more energy into Jaskier as his resolve dissolves into whimpering whines in the face over overwhelming pain returning. Then he lifts Jaskier _onto Roach_ , swinging up behind him and holding him in place with as gentle a grip as possible, urging the horses into motion with a click of his tongue.

Jaskier kind of loses track after that.

~

Geralt lets a steady litany of _“Fuck”_ fall from his lips as they ride. Roach seems to sense his urgency from his tone, because she stretches her stride into something quicker and occasionally even breaks into a trot. Thankfully Pegasus follows at her heels, because he doesn’t have a lead rope and he has his hands full keeping Jaskier in the saddle without unduly aggravating his wounds. The bandages have already bled through, but so far they seem to be doing the job of keeping the _rest_ of his blood in his body. Not that it is much comfort. He knows without a doubt that if Jaskier were _fully_ human, he’d be burying his friend, not trying to reach Yen to put him to rights.

In the next village he pays for a room and stabling, leaving the hapless stable boy to handle Roach and Pegasus, and asks someone to fetch the healer, as he carries Jaskier through the common room of the inn.

It’s unfortunate that the nearest person happens to think witchers are sub-human. The man stands and sneers at Geralt, “Pretty uppity for your kind, aren’t you?”

He is long inured to this treatment, though he’s seen less of it over the past few decades, but rage uncharacteristically thrills through him at this human’s need to endanger his bard’s life further just to flaunt his bigotry. The killer headache from _yanking_ the hydra’s life force away from it in entirety doesn’t help his mood one whit. Geralt narrows his eyes. “If not for _my_ kind, none of _your_ kind would have survived long enough to _reproduce_. If my companion dies because of you, I’ll be happy to remedy that. So _perhaps_ you should take that into consideration.”

The villager pales in a satisfactory manner, one hand moving to cover himself in reflex, and backs away. “I’ll fetch the healer, but you best have coin to pay her, _witcher_.”

Geralt bares his teeth at him briefly, gratified when the man scrambles towards the door, then carries Jaskier up to their room.

The healer, when she shows up, doesn’t appear to share the common prejudice against witchers, and is well prepared with a heavy bag stuffed with medical supplies. “What injured him?”

“Hydra.” Geralt tells her. Then as she reaches to check Jaskier’s bandages snaps, “Don’t touch him!”

She jerks her hands back, eyes wide in startlement. “I need to see his wounds. Have they been cleaned?”

“I’ll do it, just tell me what to do. No, he would’ve bled out if I’d done it then, and I don’t have any potions that are safe for a human to use, to clean them with.”

Eyeing the extent of the bandages, she makes a wry expression. “Luckily I have enough on hand. Last time I was called to an emergency with such urgency, it was an idiot who had gotten himself caught under a falling tree. Are you sure you don’t want me to do it?”

Geralt grimaces, then lies. He doesn’t want to find out how much damage Jaskier could inadvertently do her in his current state. “No, I have a spell feeding him energy. If you touch him it might try to leech off of you, instead.”

“Ah, so that’s why his breathing is steady.” She nods. “I assume it wasn’t a poisonous hydra?”

“It wasn’t. Do you have enough fresh bandages for me to buy some from you? I used up my supply.”

This merely draws a mildly surprised look from her. “Yes, I do.”

She hands him the cleaning potions and fresh bandages as he unwraps the original ones a few inches at a time, cleans them to her satisfaction, and rewraps the wounds with fresh bandages before moving to the next few inches. There’s no way to prevent Jaskier from losing blood that he needs desperately, but the bit by bit method at least has the advantage of keeping him from losing more than absolutely necessary. The cleaning potions are crudely made, some of the harshest he’s ever smelled, but they do the job.

“This is too much damage for me to heal.” She adds as he works. “If you don’t want him to be crippled, you need to find a better healer to deal with it.”

He nods curtly. Fortunately he knows a couple of excellent healers. With Jaskier properly bandaged, he stands a fair chance of making it to Yennefer without lethal infection setting in.

“The two dangers he faces now are shock and blood loss, presuming he doesn’t pick up an infection, but my cleansing potions _should_ have removed that danger. I assume your spell is buffering him from shock, but the amount of blood he’s lost is dangerous. You need to rebuild it.” She continues. “I’ll send several flasks of bone broth, but after that runs out, you can cook rabbit or lamb meat until tender and then add nettle leaves and cook until tender. Nettles have plenty of nutrition and the heat will kill the sting of them. Horsetail will work too, if you can’t find nettles. Then chop up the result into fine pieces and spoon feed it to him. Or if he has trouble swallowing, just feed him the broth.”

After, Geralt pays her, both for the supplies used and for a couple weeks’ worth of fresh supplies to use on the road. He also thanks her, because she deserves it as few do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cut snippet from first scene (mostly because it reads better without it):
> 
> Jaskier splutters, at a loss for words at the image that evokes in his imagination.  
>  _Like hell he’s showing a bunch of uneducated villagers his missing cock, or in this case, very much not missing! How does Geralt come up with these-! Wait. No. Geralt probably just doesn’t want to fight his way out of a tavern over Jaskier’s nonexistent chastity if someone’s rude enough to demand proof. Yeah, that’s probably it._
> 
> I have no idea if rabbit or lamb would be appropriate meats, as I was raised vegetarian, but nettles and horsetail are fairly high in nutrition and among the relatively common 'edible weeds'.


	3. Of Sirens and barfing Peonies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer, and then a siren and a healer who is just so done with everyone's shit. A head gets carried around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Also the end of the pre-written cliff notes version which turned out to be great to write from when super busy and tired.  
> You are welcome to skip the following grumble and go straight to the story:  
> In an effort to redirect the arguments cropping up from society's reaction to the world's latest super-flu, we decided to start on gardening for the year. Apparently I'm the designated expert despite the fact my mom has been gardening longer? (rolls eyes) Huge backyard, three totally clueless kids to educate on basic gardening, planning for nine people's worth, major re-landscaping in the works, and hoping to hell that none of the greenhouses or stores like Lowes that carry plants and supplementary dirt close down. And rain and snow that keeps rolling through, so sunny days are _busy_.  
> Turns out we have seven varieties of basil seed...why? We grow basil about one year in five... 108 varieties of tomato seed, mostly several years old, only 23 of which we've agreed on to grow this year. We're going to be giving away seedlings again this year, lol~ And so on and so forth.  
> (Yes, I will answer basic gardening questions for people who are trying to garden this year and are clueless and have no one else to ask.  
> First thing you want to do is look up your gardening zone. Zones are divided by growing season length, and temperature extremes and averages, so you can look up if various plants or varieties will do well in your area or if you need to look for a different one. Miracle-gro and other chemical-fertilizer supplemented dirts are fine (even great) for pots, but I don't recommend them for gardens, also be prepared to completely change out your dirt every three years if you use it in pots. Again, that's fine for pots, because pots shouldn't use the same dirt more than a few years in a row due to potential disease buildup and salt buildup from leaching. This applies less to houseplants and please don't ask me about those, I'm good at killing them on accident.)

When the healer leaves, Geralt takes the time to check that the horses have been fed and stabled properly. He returns to find Jaskier moaning, with tears on his cheeks, paler than the sheets he’s lying on from the brief separation. Geralt spends the rest of the day and all night feeding him stolen life energy from the hydra.

In the morning, he orders up breakfast and eats with one hand on Jaskier, then takes the time to tack up the horses before carrying him down. Again, the mere minutes-long separation has visibly affected Jaskier adversely, much to his dismay.

The next week and two days on the road are a hell of tending to Jaskier and the horses on his own, complicated by a blinding glut headache. Finally, _finally_ , he finds Yen where he hopes to find her and breathes a sigh of relief.

~

Jaskier remembers very little of the travel.

Snips of a woman’s voice directing while Geralt’s hands moved on him. Pain-soaked snatches of leaning against Geralt’s chest, being lifted up or down, of bandages being changed, of Geralt’s curses as he helps Jaskier relieve himself or feed him something mushy that reminds Jaskier vaguely of meat and spinach, though not really spinach. All alleviated by Geralt’s constant touch and the steady energy he feeds Jaskier. Except those hellish moments where he has to _stop_ , to tend the horses, prepare food or deal with humans, where Jaskier devolves into a mewling creature that knows only agony until Geralt is there again.

He remembers a bit more of the past two days, though. Not much, but enough to know he must be doing a bit better somehow. How hoarse and tired Geralt’s occasional _“Fuck”_ sounds, how carefully Geralt tucks him against his chest before urging Roach into motion, how Geralt flinches slightly at the occasional whimper that slips between Jaskier’s lips when Roach’s gait jolts him just the wrong way, and how the pain is less a drowning wave and more a constant fog.

“Go take care of your animals while I check him over.” He hears a female voice say, and _oh, that’s Yennefer._ Geralt brought him to Yen for healing.

There is the sound of a door handle turning and a door closing. He loses track for a while as Yen checks him over and Geralt returns. The latter prompts him to crack his eyes open just enough to peer through his eyelashes at the unfairly pretty pair.

“Whichever healer you saw did a halfway decent job on healing, so he won’t be crippled. Might take some time before he can play songs again, though.” Yennefer informs Geralt.

Hazily, Jaskier wonders if Yen can see the energy that is a bit _off_ around Geralt, occasionally forming toothy snakeheads that strike out before reabsorbing into the bright aura that surrounds G’s normal one like a sloppy coat of mud. Don’t ask him how he knows it is Geralt’s normal aura, he just _does_.

Geralt places a hand on Jaskier, _which feels lovely,_ and his expression eases slightly. His voice is gruff as he says, “Didn’t get any healing done. The healer said it was beyond her ability. Just got the cleaning potions from her.”

Yennefer nods. “I did see traces of that. Crude, but effective.” She hesitates for a moment. “He shouldn’t have this much healing on his own, Geralt, and I could feel him trying to leech my energy. That’s _weeks_ of healing there. What did you _do?_ ”

“He’s part incubus. I’ve been feeding him energy. Can you heal him?”

“Who do you think I am?” Yennefer sounds mildly offended at the question. “Of course I can heal him. And are you an idiot? Even for a witcher it’s unconscionably dangerous to be feeding him your life energy for a week! You fool.”

 _“Grrowshssssss.”_ The hissing growl of impatience widens Yennefer’s eyes and startles Jaskier even in his mostly comatose state. Geralt cuts himself off and says curtly, “Not mine. Ripped it from the hydra to save him. Feeding it to him is the best way to get rid of it.”

“You… How?” Yennefer demands.

“Witcher trials. Mine is a bit…more than the others have.” Geralt grimaces. “Usually it only pulls a bit when they die and the injuries eat it up, but this time there _were_ no injuries and it wasn’t just a bit, it was the whole thing.”

Yennefer makes a complicated expression. “…handy, I guess.”

“Not really. I’ve had a migraine since I killed the thing, from the glut.”

“…you’re a moron.” Yen states irritably. “Tell me these things first. I’ll take care of that after I heal him. I won’t even charge you for it.”

“Hmmn.” That’s Geralt’s _‘make me a better offer’_ hmmn.

Apparently Yennefer recognizes it too. “… Fine. Or for your bard’s healing either.”

Jaskier feels immensely proud of Geralt for the clever negotiation. They both know Yen isn’t above taking advantage of Geralt and then demanding that he pay for the privilege. It’s just that Geralt tends to let her, most times. As proud as he is, though, Jaskier’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it while being healed by a temperamental sorceress.

After, he sits up with some help from Geralt, smiling at them, and admiring his new scars while Yen takes care of Geralt’s troublesome aura problem. Not many men can say they survived a hydra bite, after all!

“This will make a great song!” He proclaims, while wincing at the stiffness in his arms and how it stiffens up his fingers in response. “As soon as I can play again, that is. But I can write and sing in the meantime!”

“Some people have the manners to thank those who help them.” Yennefer snarks.

Jaskier beams. “Thanks for saving me from the hydra and keeping me alive after, Geralt!”

There is ominous silence and Jaskier uses it to enjoy the look on Yen’s face.

Geralt huffs in amusement at her expression and replies gravely, “You’re welcome.”

“Have you noticed how much he uses his words around you?” Jaskier asks Yennefer. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Yen scowls in return. “You’re lucky I like you, bard.” Then she scowls at Geralt. “And how long have you had a raging hard-on for him?”

“Fuck.” Geralt says succinctly, _which isn’t a ‘no, I don’t’,_ and stomps out.

Jaskier stares at Y, _who looks smug as fuck_ , because that’s- “Rude.”

“Now you know how _I_ felt.”

“Fair.” He pauses, thinking of the weird, bright aura-mud that had acted uncannily like a hydra and the hissy growl Geralt had made. “Thanks for getting rid of that for him. Really. I think it was affecting him in bad ways.”

She gives him an indecipherable look. “I take comfort in the fact that he’s not usually _quite_ that stupid. But it’s _always_ about you when he is.”

A silence falls, filled with all the things they are unwilling to voice.

“Or Ciri.” Jaskier adds after a long moment.

Yennefer snorts, the moment broken. “We all do stupid things for Ciri.”

Then, _of course_ , Geralt disappears into the woods for two days as if to say he doesn’t want to talk to either of them. Which, admittedly, is a good way to get his point across, because neither he nor Yen are good at leaving a man in peace when they feel like talking or teasing. Naturally, Geralt pretends like nothing has happened when he returns.

Jaskier and Yennefer exchange fond, vaguely amused glances, because _‘Isn’t that just like our Geralt?’_

Not that they’ll say that aloud to his face. That would send him fleeing back to the forest, and there’s only so much they can talk about without Geralt around before they get bored stiff. He and Yen prefer to remain frenemies, not tilt over into outright, catty enemies. There’s so few who can keep up with them properly, after all.

~

“A mermaid, Geralt! A mermaid!”

“A siren. And NO.”

“Ok, a siren. Please?” He gives Geralt his best puppy eyes. “I’ll stay out of the water!”

A _‘for fuck’s sake’_ look crosses Geralt’s face, then he sighs in exasperation and pulls chunks of wax off a candle, mangling them into wads with his fingers. “Fine, but _don’t_ take these out, stay out of the water, and keep out of the fight.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Of course I will.”

Geralt makes a noise of profound disbelief and stuffs the wax pieces into Jaskier’s ears.

“Rude!” His own voice is extremely muffled to his hearing.

Looking like he’s contemplating finding some way to gag him, Geralt says something that is incomprehensible through the wax’s muffling.

“Fine, fine. Lead on, oh fearless witcher. I will obey your every command and keep my fragile, mostly-human self out of the way of so much as a scratch.”

The _‘that’ll be the day’_ look Geralt treats him to is uncalled for. Really! But instead of commenting aloud, Geralt leads the way to the beach.

Jaskier primly stays a fair bit back on the beach, waiting patiently as Geralt wades in and tries talking to the siren.

Apparently the siren disagrees with whatever compromise is being offered, because it bares its fangs and lets out a god-awful wailing, screeching noise _(aquatic song?)_ that makes Jaskier cringe even through the makeshift earplugs.

Geralt, of course, is not so lucky. His ears start bleeding even as he draws his sword, and he gets about one step towards the siren before the noise stops him from moving further forwards.

 _This is not good._ He looks around for weapons somewhat frantically. Then grabs up a fat stick of driftwood he spies, runs down the beach, and wades past Geralt who is still frozen in place.

The siren narrows its eyes at Jaskier, but he knows it can’t stop singing without releasing Geralt, who is much too close for comfort. _Or at least, if Jaskier was a monster, it would be much too close for his comfort, knowing Geralt would be able to strike before he could move far enough away to escape, but he probably shouldn’t assume that a monster, no matter how fascinating, thinks like a wildly popular bard does._

He swings, attempting to hit the siren’s head like one might hit a ball with a bat. Unfortunately, he is not the most athletic of men and he fumbles badly at _exactly_ the wrong moment. The driftwood sails full force out of his hands, directly into the siren’s open mouth, right as Jaskier stumbles and flails sideways, only to fall full length into the waves. He reemerges to see that apparently the impact was enough to make the siren’s fangs stick in the wood, because it has both hands wrapped around the other end, claws clenched deep into the driftwood, trying to remove the obstruction. Even as Geralt strides past and uses his silver sword to take off siren’s head. Hands, driftwood and all.

Geralt grabs up the head and chucks it up onto the beach, before yanking him up out of the water and dragging him ashore. He stabs his sword into sand and pulls wax out of Jaskier’s ears. “You blithering idiot! You agreed to stay _away_ from the fight, and what do you do first chance? You run right into the middle of it!”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Jaskier agrees, shaken despite himself. “I’ll definitely have to leave that part out. No one wants to hear about the bard protecting the big bad wolf.”

This is met with a growl, as Geralt sheathes his sword, grabs up siren head and weirdly attached pieces like some grisly ornament and stalks towards town.

“Hey Geralt, wait up! I- Ouch, fuck, damn.” He realizes belatedly that he had somehow twisted the fuck out of his ankle when he had fallen. Only to promptly fall over again, because destiny couldn’t be kind enough to grant him _dignity_ in this situation. _Oh no, of course not!_

“Idiot.” Geralt opines, from where he’s turned back to observe Jaskier’s moment of complete and utter klutziness. But then Geralt stalks back to him, stoops and slings him over one shoulder _(the siren’s head still in his other hand)_ and trudges back to town without so much as a grumble at having to carry him.

~

The first villager to spot them whimpers and collapses in a dead faint. Geralt doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes. It’s certainly not the first time and it won’t be the last, he’s sure. Attention drawn, other villagers burst into disturbed and worried murmurs at the sight he presents. The sound of humans bestirs Jaskier from his dramatic droop on Geralt’s shoulder and he starts poking Geralt’s back lightly.

“Geralt. Geralllllt, I know you can hear me.”

He ignores the bard, because he’s not conveying anything other than his ability to be annoying at the drop of a hat.

“Geralt! Put me down you big lug!”

“Hmmn.” He says disparagingly.

“It’s not broken, it just surprised me! Come on, I can walk.” Jaskier cajoles.

“Hmmn.” Geralt is distinctly unimpressed by this bogus attempt at logic from the man who took one step earlier and fell over like a startled kitten on a slick floor.

“Don’t give me that! I might have to _lean_ on you a little bit, but I can walk! Just put me-”

“Jaskier, shut up. I’m not putting you down. You’ll just slow us down.”

There is a blessed moment of offended silence before Jaskier concedes in a grandiosely pouty tone, “Fine.”

Then Jaskier wriggles a bit, no doubt peering at the people around them. People who look distinctly less worried now, which probably means that they thought it was _Jaskier’s head_ that he was carrying around, like murdering his companion is a hobby of his or something.

Even with the bard’s ridiculously inaccurate songs making life easier, or at least more profitable, people still have some distinctly grotesque ideas about witchers and their preferred activities in general. Even people who think of him as the White Wolf and know about his part in Ciri’s story tend to have the story so garbled that Jaskier’s songs are shining paragons of truth in comparison. Ciri has her own odd reputation, after all. And not half as deserved as his own. But war and the machinations of rulers and nobles has a tendency to skew things like that. …He should probably write to Ciri again. Before she shows up to demand to know why he hasn’t and sends her courtiers into an absolute tizzy when they can’t find her.

Irritated at the path his thoughts have taken, he stomps into the tavern and shoves the head at the client.

The client gives them a long look, then stares at the head, which still has wood sticking out of its mouth and hands with claws gouged into the wood morosely dripping slow splats from where they were severed just below the wrists. “Well, now. That’s unique.”

Geralt doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

The man takes a moment to hand over the money, then resumes staring at the head in fascination. Geralt hopes that he doesn’t decide to use it as some morbid centerpiece for his table or something. He’s seen humans do things that questionable, and it always leaves him feeling like the only difference between them and the monster he killed is that one of them paid him.

“Where’s the local healer?” He demands.

The client doesn’t even bother looking up. “North side of town. Can’t miss it. Just look for the house that looks like a peony threw up on it.”

_Okay, then. Interesting description._

“A peony!?” Jaskier queries, interest roused.

Geralt rolls his eyes and strides out before the bard can successfully start a conversation about peonies throwing up on houses. Turning north, he walks for a few minutes before spotting a small house painted poisonous pink. It does give off a rather flowery impression, he supposes, though he’s not sure he’d compare it to something as harmless as a _peony_.

~

Jaskier rearranges himself, using his elbows to prop himself up on Geralt’s shoulder, looking around curiously. Then he gets a glimpse of the house Geralt has aimed them at. “Ohh, peony! Wow, I didn’t know they made paint in this color, did you, Geralt? It’s pretty…impressive. Bright, even.”

“They don’t.” Geralt says flatly.

 _Observably that is not the case._ “Well, obviously they do or-”

“Beet juice in the whitewash.” Geralt grudgingly elaborates, in a tone that means he’s either wrinkling his nose in distaste or manfully refraining from doing so.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, I guess that might do it. Note to self: never spill beet juice in the whitewash if I have to paint a house. Unless it’s Yennefer’s house. Then it might be okay. Cuz she’d probably like it.”

Geralt snorts and bangs on the door. “She’d hate it and you know it.”

“Exactly!”

A middle aged woman opens the door, treats them to an impressive hairy eyeball, and then snorts. “Quit insulting my house and come in.”

“How did you know!?” He exclaims in dismay. _Surely he’s not that obvious?_

“Everyone insults my house. I could give a toss. Leastways my neighbors have quit complaining about people who can’t find my house trying to barge in on them all the time.”

“Ahh. It is…identifiable.” He concedes delicately.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Set him down there, on that cot.”

Geralt complies.

Jaskier tries not to fidget while she checks his ankle.

“Split some firewood for me and we’ll call it even, witcher. It’s not broken. Just needs to wrapping and rest. I’ll give you some extra bandages for it.”

The healer wraps his ankle, ignoring his chatter, and returns to her former task of making some decoction that smells vaguely familiar. Like one of Geralt’s less toxic potions, maybe.

When Geralt returns, he throws Jaskier over his shoulder again, _which rude,_ and trudges back to the inn. Whilst ignoring his _very justified thank you_ complaints about the indignity of it, even when he resorts to using his classically trained volume and practically _deafening_ the man’s sensitive ears. Though, possibly he _is_ still deaf from the encounter with the siren? There was blood and… okay, just a little blood, but still. Jaskier is _clearly_ doing him a _kindness_ by iterating his point loudly enough that Geralt can actually _hear_ him.

Just as clearly, Geralt does not _appreciate_ this kindness, because he tosses Jaskier on the bed with enough lack of care that he bounces _twice_ before coming to rest.

“For fuck’s sake, shut up, Jaskier. And stay put. I’ll have meals sent up for us.” Then he tosses a set of dry clothing in Jaskier’s face.

Now, Jaskier appreciates the thought, don’t get him wrong, but would it have killed Geralt to warn him first? He grumbles about it as he changes, but being dry is _a thing_. A nice thing. A bath would be a nicer, but clearly _that’s_ not in the cards, so he’ll just suffer being salt-itchy for a night and guilt Geralt into paying for a bath for them tomorrow. For once _he_ needs it far worse than his grumpy friend.

He subsides into relative silence when the meal comes, more interested in eating than in talking.

After, Geralt sheds his armor and dons his own set of dry clothing before lying next to Jaskier. Which is okay and expected even _(they’ve shared many a bed to save money)_ , but the witcher’s weight unbalances Jaskier’s comfortable position and he ends up squirming around gracelessly to find a new one. In the doing, he spots the dribble of dried blood tracking down the edge of Geralt’s jaw and is reminded of Geralt’s bleeding ears. He pokes at the blood, but instead settles for pressing his fingertips against Geralt’s wrist, like a cat kneading its claws, when Geralt bats his hand away.

“Why didn’t you have the healer look at this? Can you even hear me yet, or are you still reading lips? I mean, I _know_ I’m loud enough you can hear me when I project my voice, but-”

“It’s fine.” Geralt cuts him off gruffly. Which is Geralt speak for _‘it was healed before we got back to town and I could hear you just fine the whole time and I was just ignoring you because you never fucking shut up, even when told and sparing enough words to tell you that was too much effort to be put into socializing for the day; oh, and thank you for distracting the siren so I didn’t get killed, but I’m not gonna tell you that because I’m actually embarrassed that I needed help from a bard of all creatures’_.

Jaskier opens his mouth to remind Geralt that a little appreciation goes a long way and- But Geralt shoves some of that energy-stuff-something at him _(What had Geralt called it? Life-glut?)_ , and really, that stuff’s _good_ , like getting an instantaneous full on drunk without fearing the hangover after.

“If you’re doin’ tha’ to ge’ me to co-op-er-ate, izz workin’.” Jaskier informs him dazedly, hearing the slurring of his own words and barely caring at all. He kind of hates the incubus part of him right now, but then he wouldn’t be experiencing this, so he can’t and he’s torn on the matter.

And Geralt, _because Geralt is a smug asshole who is smug_ , just says in the most self-satisfied tone _ever_ , “Hmmn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have literally no idea what beet juice would do to whitewash. It could quite possibly ruin it entirely instead of acting like a dye, but it is a natural, easy to obtain in your own kitchen dye, so it sprang to mind. (Yes, you'd have to add mordants to it to make it dye cloth properly instead of just staining inconveniently.)  
> Yes, Jaskier, 'life-glut'. Of _course_ that's what Geralt calls it. Not. Lol.  
> Geralt shoved life energy at Jaskier so his ankle would heal up faster, shutting him up was just a benefit. But now he _knows_ it works for that, haha.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have some suggestions for further scenes, please throw them at me, cuz I've got nothing.


End file.
